Remembering the Mammoth.

The day I finally died was a Sunday, after I spent something like thirty years avoiding the matter… it was a Sunday that finally got me.
I’m not sure why that bothers me… ‘Sunday.. really?’, but it does. Who wants to pop their clogs on the day of rest?

There was nothing especially stand out about this day either… Like all the best days this one started with the classic ‘sun coming up’ and it ended like a consummate professional by putting all that nonsense to bed.
The wind blew across the face of the Earth like the Queen of England, slowly but surely waving it’s little hands to usher the clouds, like peasants, across the face of the sky.

Somewhere else in the world people were sleeping as if they had absolutely no idea I was dying. They were dreaming things about their jobs and wives and not wives and the guy from the gym and maybe about and giving a speech or swimming in the sky.
And when I died, somewhere on the planet blue was turning into yellow. People were waking up and making coffee and promptly forgetting whatever it was their brain had been trying to tell them while they weren’t looking.

And all of this happened and carried on without even a second thought about the fact that I was dead!

Of course somebody noticed. I think I had a wife or a boyfriend or a dog or something and that they probably saw it happen? Or Maybe I did that most taboo of things and did it in public? Maybe people saw? I’m pretty sure at least… how embarrassing would that be?
I have no real idea though, because one of the things you might learn about being dead is the way your memory doesn’t really play out the way you remembered it… Which is not to say I can’t remember anything, just that everything I care to try and remember ends up seeming a bit ‘way off’, fuzzy and abstract, much like the mammoth.